


her way

by ectoBiologist



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-30
Updated: 2011-09-30
Packaged: 2017-10-24 04:27:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/259003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ectoBiologist/pseuds/ectoBiologist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>when the game ended, each kid was left with a memento.</p>
            </blockquote>





	her way

**Author's Note:**

> i seem to like writing about the way terezi sees things! makes sense since its just description which is i think what i do best as opposed to actual storytelling, which i am bad at.

He tries, sometimes, when he's sure no one's home and it's nearly silent save for the distant murmur of evening traffic outside. He keeps them in his nightstand; he doesn't do this often, persay, but he likes them close. He tells himself it's a reminder, not just of her but of the game itself, but he knows that's not it-the perpetual tick, tick, tick in the back of his mind that grows ever louder in the silence is his trophy for winning, and it's right in the sitting room, gleaming and impossible to ignore. He needs no souvenir of the past, his very existence is enough.

It's harder than he thinks to admit to himself why he needs them there, so he doesn't dwell on it and focuses on everything else. On the room's shapes, the corners of the furniture and the colors, trying to imprint them solidly in his mind.

Then off go his shades, and on go hers.

He takes a moment to to see the world in rosy hues, pulling his legs up onto the bed so that he's sitting criss-cross, and lets his eyes fall shut. He reaches for the lamp and clicks it off and there is darkness, lights dancing behind his eyelids.

He sits and he tries to feel the room around him, to-well, he'd never admit it, but to appreciate the blueberry of the blankets underneath him, the chocolate of his headboard, the cherry lenses perched on his nose. If he really, really tries, he can almost imagine what it's like, surrounded by splashes of vivid pigment that just barely make a blip on his mind's radar. It's frustrating, too, because he's aware it isn't quite the same and never will be.

He knows it's all in his head, but it's comforting to perceive things in just a fraction of the way she seemed to have. It's almost like he's allowing her into his thoughts just for a while, because he can practically hear slithered complaints through black lips at his decor, which, save for a few of John's things that he leaves by, tend to be of the darker variety.

He's certain she'd want to taste the heat that sometimes finds its way into the corners of his eyes, and he's sure she'd be disappointed by the bitterness.

He lets himself revel in the sensation for no longer than point 5 minutes, exactly-he's long since learned to make time last and stretch and obey his will where it'd normally fail others.

It's a rush, to take them off and open his eyes, to click on the light and see, and it hits him hard every time how dominant the power of sight really is. He blinks slowly, folding her glasses in his lap; sometimes there's a faint ringing in his ears and those are the times he knows he really lost himself to the illusion he created. It's a lot like music and a lot like clockwork-second nature and leaving his head swimming.

After they're out of sight he nudges the drawer close with his foot. They're there, for when he wants to remember, and it puts him at ease until his natural rhythm starts back up.

Sometimes he even lets himself smile.


End file.
